


Here Comes The Moon

by righteousroompeople



Category: Traveling Wilburys
Genre: Author loves to chat in the Comments, Friar Park, George is mean and bored, Jeff is just kinda... there, M/M, Magic AU, Tom is very protective of his wildflowers, Wizard!George, author auths, author can't write at all actually, author can't write dialogue, author has no writing skills whatsoever, eeh, i haven't even written the story yet, musician!Bob, slight Billy Joel vibes, unbetaed, well what's new about that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-23 01:04:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13776402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/righteousroompeople/pseuds/righteousroompeople
Summary: In which Bob is bored, George tries to stir his life up a bit and Bob isn't that happy about that.Also, George's a wizard.Harry.





	Here Comes The Moon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aldrig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aldrig/gifts).



> This story wouldn't exist without the amazing Aldrig!  
> Check out her Tumblr, because her art is amazing: savoy-brown-shoe.tumblr.com

It was all so quiet. Quiet and peaceful, mind you, but still, sometimes you felt more at peace near a bunch of loudly talking people, or in a zoo, or when travelling with public transport, or near an air hammer-  
Maybe not that bit. But yes, there were times when silence didn't automatically mean peace.

This happened a lot lately, George thought. Why was he sitting in complete silence again? Why wasn't he outside in his garden, listening to the birds' chattering?  
His house was too big and too quiet for him.  
He was so glad that he could just, I don't know, step outside and do something!  
He had a fountain in his garden. It was small and simple, and George had no idea how it worked, how it never ran out of water, and actually, he didn't even know if that was an essential part of making a fountain work, to never let it run out of water.

But he was certainly glad he didn't have to worry about that.

George sat down in front of it and leaned in to see what it was showing him.  
'What have we got today, then?' he murmured, nose almost touching the water. And almost like looking through a ground glass, he saw a couch, and in that couch, a woman trying to look like an actress. Or was she actually an actress? Who knows. She sure looked like it. She was doing her makeup while listening to a talk-show on the radio, her clothes looking very elegant. This must be a very important evening for her, then. Better not ruin it, George thought. 'Next,' he commanded the water, and in the next minute, he saw a club. Or rather, a really small pub. Peaceful. And not at all quiet. 'Wait, look there,' George told the fountain, and the picture turned to the left, and there it was. The source of most of the noise.

It was a man with a guitar. How surprising. He seemed to be singing something, and although George couldn't really get the words, he thought he could imagine how it sounded. He was wrong, probably. All he needed to see was while he seemed to be lost in his performance, and the people around him didn't seem to mind him, it was exactly like that. They didn't mind him. They didn't care. They were sitting there with complete and utter nonchalance plastered on their faces.

'Perfect!' George's face lit up, 'this is where I'm going, then. If you think it a good idea, of course.'  
The fountain had no complaints about it, it seemed, so George stretched his muscles, and with one big leap, he stepped inside the picture in the water, stumbling a bit.

*

_'...I just wouldn't have a clue. Anyway, it wouldn't ring true, if not for you...'_ George heard as he stood up from his quite graceful fall. He fixed his leather jacket that he somehow managed to get on himself while travelling, and touched his hair to check if... Yes. It was much shorter than usual and styled into a moptop, which was exceptionally weird. 'What's happening out here?' he asked himself, 'why am I wearing leather from head to toe?' Last time he was here, he just got a top-hat and a suit, which wasn't so bad, but this? 

_...It'll soon shake your windows and rattle your walls, for the times they are a-changin'_ ,' the guy was now singing, and George once again focused on him.

'Oh,' he huffed, and sat down in the back of the pub, his eyes never leaving the musician, who seemed to be dressed in the same way as he was, except he was wearing less leather. Lucky guy.

*

A waiter came to get him something to drink, and he absent-mindedly nodded yes to the first thing he was offering. He then watched as the poor bloke went around to ask everyone else if they wanted something, too, but nobody said yes. This was a great night for him.  
And it wasn't even near midnight yet! People weren't supposed to leave! Especially when the guy up there could perform ten-minute long songs about imaginary places, imaginary characters and their not-so-imaginary problems.  
It was amazing and thoroughly captivating, even if George didn't really understand what the musician was talking about in the slightest. Nay, he didn't think the musician himself understood what he was talking about, but at least they'd have something to talk about, then, he grinned. He never was an expert at talking blues, but it was funny enough to be enjoyable if done right. Or was that not the purpose?

He was baffled, nonetheless.

He looked around to see the uninterested faces of all those strangers and decided to finally make his move, as the musician introduced himself as Bob for the fourth time in one sentence. His name was Bob, then, okay.  
Standing up to his full, (not) very intimidating hight, he strode over to where the musician, _Bob, he reminded himself,_ was sitting.

Yes, good. And now what? Will he just, what, stand there? And stare?  
The musician, _**Bob,** _ had stopped singing, and was quietly strumming his guitar. (Was it peacefully? Now that he was this close to him, George couldn't decide if he was peaceful or not. What if he was actually an undercover cop? God, he had no idea how to talk with people. But he also had no reason to worry about undercover cops. He could just turn around and be gone.)

He could also just talk to him.  
'If not for who?'  
'What?' a pair of slow, steel blue eyes turned to look at him.  
'It wouldn't ring true, if not for who?' George hummed the melody and reminded himself to blink.  
'Oh. Well, you know, it's just a song. It's nobody,' Bob shrugged, turning his attention back to his guitar.  
'Oh,' George echoed, pulling a chair closer to Bob's chair, and sat down. god, he was being _so_ brave!  
Some people stood up and grabbed their coats.  
'Sorry,' George shuffled away a bit from Bob, realizing he must be intruding his personal space if he judged the expression on Bob's face right. Humans. 'I'm George.'

He remembered to hold out his hand, and Bob (a bit hesitantly) shook it. 'I'm Bob.'  
'Yeah.'  
'Uhuh.'  
'Soo... What do you do for a living, Bob? I'm a gardener,' George tried to use his conversing voice. He failed miserably. Bob raised his eyebrows.

'Well, you know, it's what it seems. I'm just pledging my time.'  
'Hah, yeah? To what?'  
'I don't know,' Bob sniffed, 'it's just one of my songs. I think-'  
'So, you're pledging your time to your own songs? That's a bit weird, isn't it?'  
'Yes, I'm _not_ doing that!'  
'No?'

Bob sighed. His pledged time was not enough for this.  
'Look, I'll just get going. I'll be back this time tomorrow, if not a bit earlier, for what's it worth. I've never seen you before, to be honest.'  
'Yeah...'  
'M'kay. Fare thee well,' Bob got up, considering his chances for a smooth escape. There were not that many as he hoped.  
Nonetheless, he put his chair back to its place by the nearest table, took his money from the barman, as quickly as possible, and-  
'Uhm, wait!'

No.

'What?'  
Bob looked back from the back door, and George was still standing in the middle of the room, looking like someone with an idea.  
'Don't you find this all boring? Coming here every day, playing the same songs in E, and not receiving any kind of appreciation?' he asked, his eyes glinting with mischief and overall weirdness.  
'Whoever told you this was the case? Why do you think it's like this?' Bob's shoulders slumped. This guy was an idiot. He preferred D and G major.  
'I can see it on your face. And clothes. And everything.' he ignored Bob's mumble of "you're wrong". 'Don't you ever dream of something more interesting? Didn't you ever dream of that?'

Bob's eyebrows furrowed. Guy was strange.  
'Well, but of course I did. I still am, but-'  
'Great! You know, there's a place where you can go when you feel blue. And bored. Or lonely. Or anything.'  
'Yes, that's where I intend to go just about right no-'  
'Yes?' George halted. Was Bob really...?  
'Yes,' Bob nodded and stepped out of the door to the road, and his conscious exploded.

*

He woke up in a haze. And in a garden. In a hazy garden.  
The first thing he noticed was that his guitar was gone, and he was wearing a hat. Why was he wearing a hat? And where was his guitar?  
Actually, where was he?  
Oh, in a garden, yes.  
Neat.  
He took off the hat.

And what a good thing he did!  
There seemed to be a tiny little note, glued to the ribbon on that ridiculous headgear, and it said _Follow The Fireflies!_  
Very casual. 

Bob turned the little note around, to look for some kind of explanation on it, but there was none, at least nothing that his eyes could perceive.  
Follow the fireflies, then.  
As he seemed to be standing in the middle of an endless field, in the middle of an endless day, with sun, light, sunlight and _no_ fireflies for many more hours, he decided right then and there that if he ever finds that someone who put him there, he'd... He'd-  
He'd strangle them!

And he had an idea who it'd be he'd strangle.

For now, he just faced south and started walking.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, so, that's that.  
> Happy birthday, George!  
> I'll write the next chapter. Someday. Soon.
> 
>  
> 
> Or not.


End file.
